


The Blood Knows the Path

by linaerys



Category: The Eagle (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-07
Updated: 2011-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-16 04:25:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linaerys/pseuds/linaerys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I began this as a short jealous!Esca fic set in the beginning of the movie, but ended up following the story through the events of the movie and a bit beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blood Knows the Path

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much to ariadnes_string for beta-ing. All remaining mistakes are my own.

**One.**

Esca is a bad slave. Stephanos and Sassticca, who runs the kitchen, are at pains to make sure he knows this.

It is not that he shirks his duty—he serves the master, and when the master has not need of him, Esca helps in the kitchen, or sees to the animals belonging to the Aquila household. But he is a bad slave, because he will not keep his eyes properly lowered, because of the set of his chin, because he does not revere Rome as he should.

Stephanos has no further hope than being freed on his deathbed. Sassticca, perhaps, hopes to be freed to marry someday, and bear free children. They dream of these things and of serving their masters well, a few sesterces and a new set of clothes as a gift each year. That is what they wish for.

Esca wishes for a place at the head of his father’s five hundred spears, driving his brother’s chariot. He wishes to see his young nephews grown. He wishes for cattle taken in raids and warriors to rally to his band. He wishes for things that are as dead and gone as last year’s leaves, and that is why he is a bad slave.

His father’s five hundred spears were mostly killed in the Brigantes’ last stand at the wall, although a few still survive in the gladiators’ ring. He hears their names sometimes. Most Romans are not like Esca’s master, and love the sport of the ring, talk of it for weeks on end—so Esca hears the gossip in the streets, or at Aquila’s own table. Esca doesn’t know whether to be glad or not when he hears that one of his father’s spears wins glory in the ring. They are all slaves of Rome.

His main duty early on is playing nursemaid to the master, bathing him with cool sponges against the fever that sets in after his wound is opened, placing broth, spoonful by patient spoonful, into his mouth. The master’s olive skin is pale and sickly-looking.

Esca sleeps at the foot of his bed. He grows attuned to the master’s breathing, knows when he needs wakening from a fever dream, or when he dreams of happier things. He knows when the master is too cold, and when the master is too hot. When the master feels pain, Esca tries to take it away. Perhaps he is a bad slave, but he still cares for the master as he would wish to be cared for in that state.

A wound like this would probably have killed one of his people, or at the least left them badly lamed. The herb-women of the Brigantes are—were—skilled, but they did not perform such surgeries. Marcus can hobble to the latrine with an arm draped over Esca’s shoulder, and his legs are both straight enough.

When he held the master down, he heard the pieces of metal and bone dropping into an earthenware bowl, but he looked only at the master, who did not cry out or faint.

He cries out now, so Esca stirs from his pallet and wakes him. “You dream, _domine_ ,” he says.

“Thank you, Esca,” he says. Esca gives him some water, and washes the sweat from his forehead. The master closes his eyes again, and Esca looks at his sleeping face for some hint of why the gods have bound them together like this. For why else would this Roman have saved him in the ring? Esca will not refuse their gift.

*

In a few weeks, the master is able to put some slight weight on his leg. The doctor instructed him to try a little more each day, and soon the day comes when he can walk around the villa leaning on a staff. Then to the market, although he requires Esca’s shoulder to make his way back.

The master spends the rest of his days sitting, watching the birds on the lake. He always has something in his hands. He carves little creatures, some real, some fanciful. He makes a set of knucklebones and asks Esca to play with him. Esca’s hands don’t have the trick of it, but the master’s are weak and falter without warning, so they are evenly matched.

The master grows more restless as the weeks go by. The doctor comes back to examine him and tells the master his wound may go undressed, and he may go to the baths, as long as he is careful. It is the first time Esca sees the master smile, except in dreams.

Esca has never been inside a Roman bath. In the Atrium, a few young men exercise naked, but the master is not here for that.

He helps the master remove his clothing. “You don’t need to . . .,” says the master, then reconsiders. “I might need a little help, but you should enjoy yourself too.”

He alternates between the hot room and the cold pool, back and forth until his skin glows red, and his brow loses the pinch of pain it’s held as long as Esca has known him. “Sometimes I think the baths are the best thing Rome’s ever done,” he says, floating on his back in the _tepidarium_.

“I would not argue with that, _domine_ ,” says Esca warily. But the master just smiles. The hot room feels like sunlight on Esca’s skin, warming places that have been cold for years.

They are joined then by two young men, Romanized Britons by the look of them. The master speaks to them in Latin and they greet each other by Roman names, but their accents and features are Briton.

“You’re healing well,” says the one who calls himself Lucius. He is slight and well-muscled, but unscarred, and his blond hair’s curl does not look like something granted by nature. Marcus has the scars of a warrior, and not just on his leg. His forearms are nicked and sliced where swords and spears must have gone awry, and his arm bears a deep red weal that looks like the path of a burning arrow. Esca would like to know how he got it.

“Took long enough,” answers the master.

Tullus, the taller of the two, darker haired, perhaps the product of a Roman man and Briton mother, asks, “What will you do when you’re well?”

The master stiffens, but all he says is, “I will not anticipate the fates.”

“We will help you enjoy your rest,” says Lucius, “won’t we, Tullus?”

Esca towels off the master after they leave, carefully patting dry the healing wound. It is red from the heat, but still closed. He wraps it lightly anyway before helping the master dress. The master’s legs are weak from the heat, so he needs Esca’s shoulder again for the journey home.

Outside, Lucius and Tullus wave a goodbye at him. Once out of earshot, the master makes a rude noise. “They think they’re Romans because they’ve bribed someone for citizenship.”

“Are they not?” Esca asks, but he knows the answer. There are ways and ways of being Roman, and even the master is on the outside looking in on many of them.

“They’ve never fought for Rome, but they’re rich enough they never will and neither will their children. They will use the name of Rome to line their pockets, but if the politics ever shifted, they’d forget they heard of us.”

“They’re surviving,” says Esca. His father did the honorable thing—Esca has never questioned that—but how much good did honor do his men? Their wives and families? Now they lie unburied while the forest eats their bones, and their farmland is parceled out to men like these. “Rome gave them that choice.”

The master presses his lips together. “I guess it did.”

*

The master grows stronger every day. Soon their walks circle the walls of Calleva, and the master rarely needs a shoulder.

“My uncle fears I would not be safe outside the walls,” he tells Esca after complaining of the city’s dullness.

“In Calleva?” Esca retorts—Calleva is deep in Roman territory—but then remembers himself. “You would be safe with me, _domine_ , if I had a weapon.”

Their eyes meet, and Esca doesn’t lower his, but then the master’s mouth quirks. “Yes, between the two of us, I imagine we could fight off most of Calleva’s bandits.” He eases himself into his chair. “What kind of weapon? I won’t be allowed to give you a sword.”

“I think I’d be a fair shot with a Roman bow,” says Esca.

They go riding the next day. The new bow has a heavier draw than Esca’s used to, and he has to adjust his aim for the balance of their arrows. Neither is he accustomed to shooting from horseback, but when they water their horses at a stream, he kills a pheasant that Sassticca cooks up for dinner that night.

They speak little on their rides together, but underneath the sky and branches overhead, Esca feels a few moments of freedom, which allows his heart the room to be happy for Marcus as he grows stronger.

Stephanos is full of gossip, and told Esca what he did not want to learn, that the master had served Rome with surpassing bravery, and rescued his men at the cost of his leg and his career.

And now the master is lost. He rides each day until his leg aches and Esca has to help him down from the saddle. He gallops through yellow fields with his head down low over the horse’s neck and Esca races him. Esca is not the cavalryman that Marcus is, but his lighter weight sees him to winning a few of their headlong dashes.

Many afternoons find them back at the baths. The master converses with Lucius, Tullus, and other men who gather there. In time, their words seem less barbed. The master is no threat to them, these exchanges seem to say. The talk is of gossip from Rome and the provinces.

One night the master shows him a map of the Roman world, their sea, their lands. Esca never imagined the Brigantes counted for much in their world, but the scale of it is daunting, horrifying even. Is there no end to their greed?

In high summer, the master has a few of the household slaves erect a training post, and in the mornings he whacks at it with a wooden blade.

“The young _dominus_ will be sore from his training,” Stephanos tells Esca as watches the master one day. “A good slave would rub his shoulders.”

So Esca does, with the oil that Stephanos gives him. The master is both tall and broad, even for a Roman, who tend to run larger than Britons who have lived through lean years and salted fields.

“Do Romans not know hunger?” Esca asks. It’s a flattering enough question that perhaps Marcus will not think it rude coming from a slave. Marcus makes a pleased noise as Esca’s hands loosen a knot of muscle.

“The poor in the cities do sometimes—that’s why we have the grain dole—but Romans don’t starve. Legionnaries do as part of training. We have to fight on low rations, low sleep.” He looks at Esca curiously, as if he may ask a question of his own, but stops, as always, short of asking Esca anything about himself.

“How goes your training?” Esca asks.

“Not as well with no one to spar against,” says Marcus. “You could—if you’re willing. You look strong enough. At least considering how weak I am.”

*

“Don’t hold back,” says Marcus. They are both bared to the waist, a few feet apart in the dirt floored yard that Marcus has taken over as his training ground. With its timbered walls, it looks much like the gladiator’s ring, but here Esca isn’t frightened. He won’t die, and he’ll probably win, at least the first time.

He grins and spreads his arms, inviting Marcus to rush him. Marcus looks momentarily surprised, so Esca abandons that plan, and tries to circle around behind him. Marcus is heavily muscled enough that Esca probably won’t be able to sweep his leg, but if he leaps on Marcus’s back, Marcus can’t bat him off.

It is an inelegant victory, perhaps, but Esca does win—pinning Marcus’s arm behind his back, bending him over and forcing one of his knees to the dirt.

“Do you yield?” Esca asks.

“You like beating me,” says Marcus with a chuckle, still trying to get out of Esca’s grip without dislocating his shoulder.

Esca bares his teeth. “I like to win.”

Marcus does yield, but Esca’s tactic doesn’t work again, and Esca finds himself pinned under Marcus’s considerable weight after the next bout, Marcus’s arm resting lightly against his throat. “I fear you’d win the next one,” says Marcus, “so let’s call today a draw.”

Esca twists against him, but he really is fully pinned, so he lets his head fall back against the dirt. Marcus looks down at him, an unreadable expression in his gray-green eyes. Perhaps it’s—yes, Esca is hard and pressed against Marcus’s thigh, a not unusual reaction to rubbing against another man in such close quarters.

If Marcus were another Brigante, he’d think nothing of it—perhaps they would heat and cool their blood with hands and mouths and thighs, or perhaps not, but either way, it’s part of close combat training, in a world of young warriors with too many women dead in child bed to risk them for a moment’s release.

But Marcus’s is not Brigante; he’s has no equivalent to anyone in that world.

“Do _you_ yield?” Marcus asks.

“Yes,” says Esca. “If you are truly done.”

Marcus levers himself up off Esca. “Uncle says I shouldn’t push myself too hard,” he says.

Marcus brushes off Esca’s offer of a massage that night. He dismisses Esca the next morning with a few sesterces to buy what he will in the market.

At loose ends, Esca wanders the market. He has no need for the money—the Aquila household provides him with all his daily needs. Perhaps if he does escape, or is freed, he could use the money to buy passage north. But he can as easily live off the land, bartering game for shelter, or sleeping rough. And saving money means a plan he’s not ready to make yet.

He spends the coin on some sweet imported fruit that rarely graces Aquila’s frugal table, especially not what falls to the slaves. He eats it on the banks of the river, and is washing the sweet juice from his hands when he sees Marcus walk by on his way back to the villa, with Lucius by his side.

There is little privacy in the villa, and perhaps Marcus would not have taken Lucius home had his uncle not been visiting a friend, taking the bulk of the staff with him. Perhaps then they would have gone to an inn or brothel, and Esca would not have seen.

He follows the master home. He has not been called, but Marcus often has need of him for simple things like removing his sandals if he is fatigued. Perhaps he has other reasons for following as well, even though he has been dismissed.

“How proper a Roman are you?” Marcus asks Lucius when they are in his chamber. Esca can watch unobserved from the window that opens out onto the lake. In three months, the master has never spoken a word that Esca hasn’t heard, worn an expression that Esca has not marked. He will not allow the master to start now.

“I think of myself as Greek at heart,” says Lucius.

“Not Briton?” Marcus asks.

“When my parents won their citizenship, it was so I would not have to be.” He pulls Marcus in for a kiss.

It’s sensual, sloppy. Marcus grips the back of Lucius’s neck and bends his head back. When they disengage, Lucius’s eyes are burning bright, his lips bitten red.

“And you are not too Roman to be here?”

“It would be unfortunate for you if I were,” says Lucius. He falls to his knees. “This is looking well,” he says, running his fingers over the scar on Marcus’s leg. Esca finds his hand has curled into a fist—that is his scar, as much as it is Marcus’s.

“This is looking well too,” Lucius adds, running his hand over Marcus’s phallus.

Lucius’s curly head bobs down over it. Esca finds he can’t look at Lucius’s red lips and listen to the salacious noises he makes, but he can look at Marcus, whose head is tipped back, his eyes half-closed, his mouth slack.

Marcus wraps a hand around the back of Lucius’s head to slow him down, and then Esca can hardly see him at all, just Marcus’s huge hands, his naked stomach, hard muscled and moving in an ageless rhythm.

Marcus bites his lip when he comes, stroking Lucius’s jaw and holding him in place. “Are there other Eastern vices you enjoy?” Marcus asks when Lucius rises to his feet.

“All of them,” Lucius answers saucily. But there is no more to see. Marcus does nothing more than bring Lucius off with his hand.

Esca does not want to watch further, so he turns to look out over the lake. The sun has begun to purple the clouds, but in high summer, it will be hours before it sets.

A heron takes wing from the reeds in front of him, startling him. Esca prays that Marcus will not notice the noise he made, but he hears footsteps crossing the room to the window. He bolts.

*

Esca approaches the villa from the slaves’ entrance, hoping to busy himself in the kitchen, but as soon as he is under the roof, he hears Marcus calling for him.

“Lucius has left,” says Marcus.

“Yes, _domine_.” Esca inclines his head.

“I’d ask you not to spy on me, but you’re a slave, so it’s not really—”

Esca’s chin comes up angrily. “I wasn’t spying.”

Marcus gives him a look. “My uncle would not be pleased to learn what has happened here today. I know you speak with him at times—”

“Of your healing, nothing more,” Esca says quickly.

“Good.”

Esca waits to be dismissed, keeping his eyes cast down for once.

“Esca,” says Marcus sharply, and Esca looks at him again. “Why did you follow me?”

He can’t speak the easy excuses—that he thought Marcus might need him, that he was on his way back anyway—Marcus would never believe them. But neither can he tell Marcus a truth he doesn’t know himself.

“You don’t even like Lucius,” he says stupidly.

“My uncle would have me use you,” says Marcus tiredly, turning away. “This is not Rome, and it is not the barracks. I can’t just—.” He sighs. “I think you find being a slave shameful enough. Some things should be freely given.”

 _But not all?_ Esca wants to ask, but he is too shocked by the thought that the master has been using Lucius rather than him. Instead he says, “Do not fear to spar with me. It will make you strong again.”

*

After Marcus dismisses him, Esca walks back to the kitchen with some of Marcus’s dishes. There’s a small Briton boy who will come and scour them with sand in the morning, but it’s mindless work that Esca is glad to do.

Stephanos puts his head in long enough to say, “The young master won’t like your hands too rough.” It is one of a hundred odd bits of derisive advice Stephanos has given him which now fit a pattern Esca can recognize: he too thinks that Esca is here to serve as a bed slave. It shouldn’t shame him, for he has chosen to walk this path, but the Romans have a way of tarnishing everything they touch.

The Brigantes took slaves, of course, but Esca rarely paid them much mind. They were women, who did cooking and laundry. Sometimes they were young, and their master made them pregnant. Or they were old and waiting to die. Sometimes they married into the tribe.

A few were boy children, who grew to sullen adolescence—these tended to run off if they were not crippled to assure their staying. If they did not return to their tribes, they became lawless men, haunting the forests.

Men of fighting age died in battle before they became slaves. He should have done the same.

Esca returns to sleep outside the master’s door in case he has need of him. There is a pallet there, and a blanket. Most nights he sleeps inside the room and can hear the master’s breathing. Tonight he can only hear the sounds of frogs in the lake and the reeds rustling as a breeze flits over them.

Esca’s first woman was a slave. He has not thought on her in years—she did not wish to be with him beyond her hope that growing the first child of a chieftain’s son might buy her freedom. And Esca had preferred the company of his brother’s warriors, young, barely blooded men like himself.

The master wants this of him and will not ask it. He could command, but he wants it freely given. He has put into Esca’s hands a measure of power, the like of which Esca has not held since he was taken.

 

*

Aquila hosts a small party the next night. The guests are local dignitaries, other veterans, important Britons and their wives.

Marcus is polite, but has little to say. Esca serves Marcus’s wine, and watches Marcus grow drunker as he listens to tales of earlier British campaigns.

Esca helps Marcus to his room after he bids his goodbyes. “Mithras, they were dull,” he says, adding “thank you,” as Esca eases him down onto the bed.

“I think one doesn’t need to thank a slave,” says Esca.

“You aren’t much of a slave,” says Marcus, with a note of fondness in his voice. “You look where you shouldn’t, and you hardly ever address me properly.”

“Apologies, _domine_ ,” says Esca.

“No, it sounds wrong when you say it.”

He kneels and takes Marcus’s sandals from his feet, while Marcus undoes his belt and pulls his tunic over his head.

“Does _domine_ , have any other needs of me?” He looks at Marcus, stretched out in bed, naked, long muscles tanned now from their riding and sparring. It would be no hardship to bring him pleasure, to hold that power in his hands. “You do not need to go to Lucius,” he adds.

Marcus’s eyes are half-closed with drink, but his breathing goes shallow after Esca speaks. “Where I am from, it is not a shameful thing,” he adds, shading the truth to what Marcus needs to hear.

“You would imagine I was one of your Britons then?” Marcus asks. “What would that be like?”

If Marcus were one of them, uninjured, he would be first among Cunoval’s warriors, the strongest and the bravest. Rushing a chariot armed with only a spear. That man Esca would happily follow, bed, and die for—were he not a Roman. That one would be a hero out of the old songs. This one, battered, Roman, lost, is less dazzling—but human, and wanting.

Marcus interprets Esca’s silence as something else. “No, I will not pry,” he says. “Your past is your own.”

Esca puts his hand on Marcus’s shoulder and brings it down to his hip. Marcus catches Esca’s wrist in his blunt, brown fingers and draws Esca toward him. “Not like that,” he whispers. “Lie next to me.”

His skin is heated as though fevered, but his forehead is cool when Esca brushes a hand over it. His phallus is hot in Esca’s hand. He shows Esca what he likes, slow then faster. Esca sweeps his thumb over the tip, pearled with moisture. Marcus is quiet at first, but he is drunk enough that it’s easy for Esca to keep him lingering on the edge until Marcus is whining for release and Esca’s own breath comes shallow.

Marcus’s mouth opens when he comes, making wordless sounds. And then he lies back and is sleeping before Esca has finished wiping his fingers with a rag.

It takes hardly more than a few strokes when Esca touches himself in his own pallet, and he falls asleep listening to Marcus’s heavy, wine-soaked breathing.

*

Marcus wakes late the next morning, looking bleary and asking for water. He declines to ride in the morning, but still spars with Esca in the afternoon, after asking Esca to sluice the wine-stench off him with a bucket of cold water.

Marcus is not at his best, and Esca has pins him three times running. “You can do better than that,” says Esca, smirking. “I wish to become stronger as well.”

Marcus rushes him then, shoulder down, laughing, and knocks the wind out of Esca. He’s gasping on the ground for long enough that Marcus comes around to help him up, but Esca leaps to his feet and turns the proffered hand around behind Marcus’s back.

For a long moment, Esca has Marcus pinned, catching his hand behind his back so Marcus has to bow over rather than wrench his shoulder. He flails around with his other hand until by accident or design, he catches one of Esca’s fingers and bends it back until Esca has to relinquish or risk a broken bone.

Esca rolls out of Marcus’s grasp before Marcus can get a grip on him. “If this were a real fight, I would have held on,” says Esca when they circle one another again.

“If this was a real fight, I hope you’d have a knife on you.”

It might be considered a draw when it ends since neither can move without freeing the other, but Marcus is on top, so Esca says, “You’ve won. Will you take your spoils?” He lifts his hips against Marcus’s to make his meaning undeniable.

This time he pulls Marcus into one of the deserted stalls of the stables, and they rut against each other standing, Esca breathing against Marcus’s neck, Marcus’s cock heavy in his hand, Esca’s own rubbing against Marcus’s thigh until they both come, sticky and gasping.

After that they never talk of it, nor does Esca offer himself in the master’s bed, the master’s villa. Instead they couple in the forest after hunting, or in hidden corners on the grounds. It’s like a living thing between them, this craving that Esca has to be touched, to touch in return, and Marcus seems to feel it just as keenly.

Esca is captivated by mapping the differences between Marcus and the warriors of his tribe. Marcus’s skin has a different texture, fine grained and pliable. His lips are fuller, and he likes to nip at Esca’s with them. He looks bashful the first time he spends between Esca’s thighs instead of in his palm.

He is tall, immensely strong, but as gentle with Esca as he wasn’t with Lucius. Esca keeps watching for a hint that Marcus is holding back the casual cruelty with which he treated Lucius, but can find no trace of it. When the day comes when he finally wraps his big callused hand around Esca’s cock, Esca can hardly keep from coming at the first touch.

But Marcus’s manner forbids even teasing words during and after, and within the villa, Esca becomes better at dropping his eyes as a slave should. The air between them is too hot if their eyes meet.

 

 **Two.**

 

Esca listens to a conversation between nephew and uncle, pretty tribune and fat old bureaucrat, and as Marcus’s voice grows angry, the import comes clear.

Binding him and Marcus is a grove Esca has never seen, a grove littered with bones of fallen Romans. The place of heroes. It is the story his father used to rally the Brigantes in their last stand against Urbicus’s legions, the story that sent them whistling to their deaths under Rome’s swords. Now the story will claim two more.

Marcus Flavius Aquila is the son of the Ninth’s _legatus_ , Esca the grandson of one of the architects of that attack, son of one of its warriors. No wonder the gods have thrown them together, heedless of Esca’s honor.

“I’ll take Esca with me,” says Marcus, sealing them further to this future.

“He does what he does because he must,” Aquila tells his nephew. It is true; Esca has used Marcus’s affection for him—his need—and even if Marcus doesn’t see it, his uncle does. Esca has become two people: he is his master’s crafty slave, storing up favors and affection for the day when he will need that coin, but sometimes, when they ride together, when they grasp one another, and gasp out their pleasure under the open sky, he is Esca Mac Cunoval, free to make his own choices. Both go north.

They are richly provisioned. The young tribune Placidus feels guilty about his goading of Marcus, so when they set out, it is with pouches well lined with coin, with strong horses, of good wind, beyond the elder Aquila’s purse. They wear thick Celtic cloaks and britches, imported from the north for sale in Calleva’s market. Their packs are stocked with provisions both Roman and Briton--Marcus knows how to survive on a long march, but Esca has survived the northern wilderness.

It is a five day ride to the wall. They plan to stay at inns or use Aquila and Placidus’s letters of introduction to dine and sleep at Roman houses along the way.

Further north and inland, the late summer turns cold. The cloaks that seemed so warm in Calleva are thin in the fog and wind.

The sky is as grey south of the wall as it is north, but as they pass through the gate, Esca pulls his shoulders back straighter. Here Rome does not hold sway. Here Esca speaks the language and Marcus does not. Here he could disappear around any turn and never see a Roman face again.

Marcus looks around curiously. To him, perhaps, it looks the same, but he shivers and wraps his cloak tighter.

They travel as companions, sharing watches, sharing tasks. It feels like freedom, but it is not, not when any Pict might kill him for traveling with a Roman.

It is not freedom when he has to lie to Marcus at each turn, tell him that the people they meet don’t know where the legion went, that it is not a story told over _uisge_ , at feasts, year upon year.

Marcus has passable Britonic, but no Pictish—but there are enough words in common that Esca still asks the question. The farmers he asks take one look at him and say things like, “You know, so why are you asking.”

One sees his father in his face and says, “Your father fought bravely there. Why are you doing this?”

Esca has no answers for him and no answers for Marcus. He retreats within himself. He does not offer comfort or warmth before they split their watches. He avoids the simple touch of Marcus’s hands as they pass a bowl of hot water back and forth next to the fire.

Every night Esca thinks, tonight I will tell him. And every night he sees Marcus across the fire and knows he can’t. The gods may punish him for his cowardice, but he cannot speak the words.

*

The mountains are fierce with cold, but Marcus seems more optimistic. He has an answer he trusts, a goal. They don’t bank their fires in the mountains. They don’t set watches. It is too cold to sleep apart.

They find Guern north of the mountains, as promised, and for a moment are fighting together again. Guern speaks his piece and the part of Esca that is still a crafty slave, concerned only with survival, rises up in him and says, “I don’t trust him,” when Marcus releases his knife from Guern’s throat.

“He knows,” says Guern.

Esca’s throat works. Yes, he knows. He has been trying to hide it from Marcus all this time, hoping perhaps Marcus would grow tired of the quest, and Esca could lead him back to safety south of the wall.

*

The place of heroes is an open grave.

It is no wonder the gods have sent them here. The air smells cool and clean now, but underfoot is old, unclean death, bodies un-burnt, spirits desecrated. There is something to put right here, although Esca thinks perhaps it will not be done by stealing back the symbol of one of Rome’s few falls. Here in the north it could rally a new rebellion. It should stir his blood, but the thought makes him tired. He saw enough of war the day he saw his mother killed.

The gods might not care about rebellion, but he thinks they must want the rites they have been denied, the souls wandering restless between worlds. Marcus kneels, eyes blank with shock, and says a prayer to his god, Mithras. Lord of light, who guided them north, so they could find Guern. So they could find this.

They leave Guern and ride west to the coast, where the Seal People are known to live. Esca tells Marcus they are semi-nomadic, distaining farming as womanly. They trade furs, meat and dried fish for grains. They do not ride or keep animals beyond their half-feral hunting dogs. They are fierce. Marcus has no words for him.

They ride long that day, well past the dusk that is coming ever earlier. Esca understands Marcus wants to put as much distance between that place and this, but finally he calls for a halt. They need to eat and rest their mounts.

Esca gathers firewood while Marcus builds a tiny spark into a respectable blaze. There is no use hiding here, Esca tells him. The Seal People will find them when they cross the border—a day or maybe two.

Marcus heats up some dried meat, grain and water to a palatable texture, and wordlessly passes Esca a bowl. He spoons food into his mouth mechanically until he’s done, then sets it down and stares into the fire without speaking for a time. He finally rises to relieve himself, and when he comes back says, “I’ll take first watch.”

He banks the fire down to glowing coals and sits with a sword across his lap. Esca wraps up in his cloak and lies down with his back to Marcus. He thinks he will not sleep, but it comes on him suddenly and the next thing he knows, the sky is light and Marcus is shaking him awake.

“You should have woken me, earlier,” says Esca.

Marcus says nothing, only packs his equipment onto his horse and waits for Esca to do the same.

They ride in silence for a while. Esca’s mount is jumpy with the tension between them, and her feet sound over loud sliding on the rocks. Marcus pulls up beside him. “Why did you not tell me?” he asks suddenly.

“What would you have said to me then?” Esca asks.

“You should have told me. Your father’s tribe butchered my men,” Marcus yells.

“Your father came to kill,” Esca retorts.

“You are still my slave.” It is the voice of angry command, used to being obeyed, never before directed at him. Esca launches himself at Marcus before he has time to think.

*

The Seal Prince can’t believe that Esca would let his slave ride a horse, so he ties Marcus’s hands to his horse’s lead. Unbalanced, Marcus trips over the clumps of heather. They walk all day before they come to the Seal People’s camp, on the edge of the sea.

The sun shines over the horizon with a thin, pure light here at the end of the world. Esca has never been this far north, where the wind sweeps the land like a blade. It has a sere beauty, and Esca can well imagine the pride the tribe takes at wresting a living from this harsh land.

He takes sharp, cruel pleasure seeing Marcus bowed with exhaustion, hands tied. He had never thrown Esca’s status in his face before then, and he is suffering for it. Perhaps he is regretting his words, but Esca doubts it. Marcus is a Roman, will always be a Roman.

They feast Esca and send Marcus to sleep in the slaves’ tent, among the old women.

“Your people are to the south,” says the Seal Prince as they sit around the fire. “Why come here?”

“I came to see if I could be free of Rome,” says Esca.

“Yet you bring a Roman with you.”

“I needed him to cross the wall.”

“And now? You must know he will slit your throat now that he knows of your betrayal. He is not a proper slave.”

No, he is not. He is a dead man who has not fallen to the ground yet. The longer they stay here, the closer Marcus’s death approaches him. And Marcus is no fool; he will see that too.

He hunts with the Seal Prince, who lopes over the ground with a deceptively slow stride that eats up distance. Esca is panting when they stop.

“You are small, but fleet,” the prince says admiringly. “If you stay with us, you will learn to run like us too.”

“I do not know where I will stay,” Esca admits.

“We have few women,” the prince tells him. “Perhaps you should find a chieftain with lots of fat daughters to follow instead of my father.”

“If I find one, why should I not steal a daughter or two and bring her back?”

The prince laughs at this. Over his shoulder, Esca catches sight of a deer and springs into pursuit. He is still winded but can manage a short burst of speed that cuts off the lead doe. He drives the spear into her heart.

“Fleet indeed,” says the prince when he catches up.

Esca bares his teeth in a fierce grin. “Being small is good for something,” he says.

He gets first pick of the meat that night and takes a large slice to Marcus. Marcus glares at him, but takes it anyway. Esca can see him thinking that he will need his strength when the time comes.

He sleeps again among the warriors that night, in a tent warm with bodies, and smelling of leather and deer blood.

*

“Your slave does not know his place,” says the prince, backhanding Marcus.

Esca’s blood runs cold. It is one thing to know Marcus must die for Esca to stay here, but another to see that death stalking him with chalk blue skin and a blade in his hand.

Esca forces Marcus to his knees and asks the Seal Prince to make his choice for him. His blood hammers in his ears. Marcus’s head strains against Esca’s hands tangled in his hair.

If the prince cuts Marcus’s throat then Esca will stay here. He has done what he can, shown his power over Marcus, but it is in the hands of the gods now.

The moment stretches out as the prince thumbs his blade. Marcus’s neck cords and strains, but he remains kneeling—some trust in Esca still survives, and it shames him. The faint herbal scent of Marcus’s skin cuts through the pervasive smell of fish and sea.

Esca stares into the prince’s eyes. _Will you do it? Will you free me?_ He doesn’t know what to hope.

The prince drops his hand, and the world shifts.

The prince and Marcus’s life stood evenly balanced for a moment, but now the gods have favored Marcus, and it is the Seal Prince whose death is coming for him. Esca feels the change in the wind.

The tension that has stretched Esca near to the breaking point since they crossed the wall eases. He will not have to see Marcus killed, live out his life smiling at Marcus’s murderers. He wonders now how he ever thought he could have.

He wants to tell Marcus of his new certainty, but they must continue to play their parts. And Marcus is playing his so well.

*

After taking the eagle, they flee over shore and heather until they reach the high crags above the forest. A saying of his father’s echoes in his head: _It is always more dangerous coming down the mountain than going up._

It is truth. Marcus’s back is curved with weariness, his leg bleeding again, unluckily stabbed in almost the same weak spot.

Esca holds back the final, lying words of the chieftain for fear that they too will find a weak spot, and Marcus will be unable to bear up under both.

 _It is always more dangerous coming down the mountain._

He wraps himself around Marcus’s body to sleep and doesn’t stand watch. With the ground they covered today, and the _uisge_ headaches with which the Seal People are likely to wake, Esca estimates they have a day’s lead. The broken ground ahead will shorten it, but now they will find their footing easier if they can both rest.

Marcus sleeps fitfully and looks worse when they wake. They ride until Esca’s horse falls, and he has to cut its throat. He takes a hunk of meat for that night and they eat it raw. Marcus can hardly choke it down. His skin has grown frighteningly pale.

This night he needs no help to stay warm, and keeps pushing the cloaks off him. “Why did you not leave me?” Marcus asks.

“I swore to serve you,” Esca answers.

“I could not have asked for a better companion,” says Marcus thickly. “Whatever happens—”

“You’re fevered,” says Esca, frightened that if Marcus keeps speaking he will tempt the death that stalks them to come closer. “Sleep.”

A vise of fear grips around Esca’s heart as he covers Marcus with a cloak he will only push away. He knows the master’s fevers—knows with time and sleep, hot broth and care, he can be free of them. He knows Marcus’s body as well as his own, and knows it needs rest that Esca cannot give him.

They leave their remaining horse and take to the river. Marcus is barely conscious, and the cold water does nothing to lower his fever, which seems to steam the water from his clothes. His skin is hot to the touch, and then shivering overtakes him. Finally he can go no further.

*

“Free me,” says Esca.

He never expected to see his father’s knife here—why would Marcus have carried it all this way unless he intended this? Marcus had known that one way or another, their debts to one another would be discharged on this journey. Marcus charges him with one last task to do for a dying friend.

“I will return,” he tells Marcus, wishing to seal his promise with something, a kiss, a gift, but they are come too far from Calleva for that. He can only hope to return, to fight Marcus free to the wall.

Guern’s farm is only a few miles from here, and Esca knows the former legionary is too canny a warrior not to have favors to call in.

“You, slave,” says Guern when he sees Esca. “If your master is dead, do not think to get hospitality from me.”

Esca puts his hands on his knees and bends over until he stops panting long enough to speak. “He freed me. He lies sick, a few miles hence. He has the eagle, but the Seal People come. Will you help?”

“Let me think on it,” says Guern, slowly, sounding as though he is turning over the words in his mouth. Esca wants to shake him. Can he not feel the urgency? Hear the feet of the Seal People pounding over rock and cliff? Marcus losing his grip on life as he awaits their coming?

“I am not much minded to die today,” Guern continues.

“Then tell me who else I can call upon. You cannot be the only deserter.” The word finds its mark, for Guern flinches.

“Why do _you_ care? Leave him for dead. Use the eagle to buy your freedom south, or clemency from the Seal Tribe. What is a foolish Roman boy to you?”

Esca stands up and juts his chin out. “He is mine—my brother,” he says, tasting the truth of the words. “I will go nowhere without him.”

Guern regards him curiously. “Even into death,” Guern murmurs. “There will be no place for you to stand together. Too Roman to be Briton, too Briton to be happy.” His voice grows far away. “Standing on a knife’s edge, and you would see me fall as you have.”

Esca tries not to hear him. Marcus lies fevered, waiting for death under the Seal Prince’s knife. Waiting for Esca. “You bore arms once, stood shoulder to shoulder with your men,” he says, “surely you understand.”

Guern’s mouth twists wryly. “I was a foolish boy once, yes. I will help you.”

*

 **Three.**

Later, when they stand at Guern’s pyre, Esca remembers his words. They stand on a knife’s edge still. The Seal People had not many friends among the northern tribes, but word will spread, from the lips of the surviving Romans, from the Seal People left behind. Every hand will be against them. And south—what then? Esca would rather think of the dangers here, dangers he can at least imagine.

Marcus’s face grows gray again when the fire has burned down, and the last of the Romans leaves. “We must go, Marcus,” says Esca. “We must hide before night.”

It is full dark, with cold rain lashing down, when Esca finally spots a cave that can shelter them, high atop a craggy rock face. He half drags Marcus up to it. At the back of the cave is a fire pit, and a few half burnt logs. Esca begins the long process of growing a small spark into a blaze, when he notices that Marcus hasn’t moved.

He touches Marcus’s skin and pulls back chilled fingers. Now Marcus is not fevered, but cold to the bone. Esca strips Marcus’s clothing off, and then his own, pressing them together under his wet cloak until he thinks Marcus’s skin feels a little less clammy.

Marcus’s breathing is frighteningly shallow, and Esca tries to keep himself awake as long as he can, force some heat into him, but eventually the low crackling of the fire lures him into sleep.

Marcus is not fit to move the next day, but at least he is warm enough to shiver, and even that stops when Esca builds up the fire again. He takes his bow and goes out, promising to return with food and more firewood.

The weather has turned clear, but the wind blows harsh, the first of winter’s knives. It is well they are heading south. The sun lights the sky a distant blue, but on the horizon light gray clouds puff themselves up. They will bring the first snow, if Esca judges right, and will be overhead before nightfall.

Esca takes two rabbits, plump with fall foraging, and brings them back to the cave. Marcus is sitting up, wrapped in his cloak, half dozing against the wall. The fire is down to coals, but inside the cave is very warm.

Marcus opens one eye. “I don’t have to eat that raw, do I?”

Esca’s lips quirk. “I thought you had developed a taste for it.”

Marcus takes one of Esca’s rabbits and begins skinning it. “I’m told some of the eastern barbarians like their meat that way. They tenderize it under their saddle and after a day of riding it is fit to eat.”

“And full of horsehair.” Esca fingers the pelt of his rabbit. It already has its winter fur, soft and downy. It seems a pity to waste it, but they have not the time to cure it properly. “This barbarian prefers cooked meat.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” says Esca quickly. He meets Marcus’s eyes across the fire. The wind is blowing fierce enough to pull air out of the recesses of the cave and toward the entrance. The air smells like damp rock, but is warmer than the storm outside.

He stokes the fire to cook the meat. The wind and snow will carry the smoke away. It will not betray them. “We are a day’s ride to the wall. Two days on foot.”

“We leave tomorrow.”

“We should wait out the storm.” A drop of fat from the rabbit hits the fire and sparks fly up.

Marcus nods. “They will give us horses at the wall.”

Then a five day ride back to Calleva, and whatever new life awaits them.

The rabbits are done. Esca pares off pieces with his knife and eats them, as slowly as he can manage. Marcus eats quickly, with a half-starved wildness that Esca remembers from the lean years of his childhood.

“Will your uncle honor your freeing me?” Esca asks. “He is the one who bought me.”

“He will,” says Marcus. “No matter the cost.”

“I would not—”

“Allow me to do this thing, Esca,” says Marcus, seriously. “And do not worry, we will likely be rewarded richly.”

Still, the future sits like a stone between them, and Esca cannot see how to move it. What will such a reward mean; will it take Marcus away from him? What need will he have of Esca south of the wall?

With enough food in his belly, Esca feels his limbs growing heavy. He lies down next to Marcus, dares a hand on his hip, lips on the back of his neck, but Marcus is already sleeping.

*

In the morning the air is still. The storm left a scant dusting of snow over the trees, enough to confuse Esca’s sense of the landmarks, but not so much that walking will be difficult.

They follow a stream as far as possible, treading on the damp margins where the snow has already melted. They camp that night under a small dirt overhang with hardly enough room for the two of them.

“You should take the inside,” says Esca. “I do not want your fever to return again.”

“Stop coddling me,” says Marcus. “I don’t need a nursemaid.”

“I will judge that for myself,” says Esca, stung.

“I don’t doubt it,” says Marcus, hands on his hips.

He looks so petulant that Esca can’t help smiling at him. “You were a bossy slave, too,” Marcus adds, the corners of his lips twitching. “I am glad for it. Even when you remind me of my aunt.”

“Your aunt?” He launches himself at Marcus, heedless of Marcus’s health now, knowing only that he wants Marcus underneath him, yielding as he did in the practice arena.

Marcus topples over laughing, and does not fight overmuch when Esca straddles him. There is a sudden spark of heat between them, and then Marcus is kissing him as he has not since before the wall, cupping Esca’s face in his hands and pulling him close. The ground is cold and hard under Esca’s knees but he hardly feels it.

He fumbles for the tie on Marcus’s britches, cursing his cold fingers until he’s found room enough to wrap fingers around Marcus’s phallus, hot and familiar in hand. The way Marcus tips his head back makes Esca’s heart leap into his throat.

“You still want this?” Marcus asks. “It was not—?” His words choke off with a gasp as Esca shifts his hand.

“Not because I was your slave? No. I thought I’d made that clear.”

Marcus is in no state to answer him, and Esca draws it out for as long as he can, watching Marcus’s face contort with pleasure, until he clasps his hand around Esca’s and comes with a strangled cry.

“I wanted to hear you say it. I would not be selfish,” says Marcus, his voice low. “But the ground is cold. Perhaps we should go into our shelter.”

The overhang is dry, and full of autumn leaves. Marcus does take the inside, but wraps around Esca like a blanket so the cold air cannot touch him.

“I would not be selfish,” murmurs Marcus again when they are settled. He runs a hand up under Esca’s tunic, over his flank, setting Esca’s stomach to fluttering. He runs his hand down, skimming over Esca’s cock to the sensitive skin between his thighs. Esca wriggles, trying for he knows not what, for he does not want this teasing to end.

Finally Marcus wraps his hand around Esca’s shaft, thumb sweeping over the head, making the twisting stroke that Esca prefers. “I had not thought that you—” he gasps.

“That I noticed?” Marcus’s voice is low and pleased. “I know what you like.”

He has to stifle a cry when Marcus finally lets him come, and it seems to take forever before the pleasure fades and he returns to himself, with Marcus’s breath hot on his cheek.

*

They sleep warm amongst the leaves. The day is clearer than the one before, the snow gone except in the hollows.

“Tonight we make the wall,” says Esca.

“I must look Roman then,” says Marcus. He rubs at his unshaven face. “I have no right to ask it, but will you . . . ?”

“I will need some employment,” says Esca as he sharpens Marcus’s dagger. “Perhaps I will learn to lance a boil, and call myself a barber.”

“And set your knife to many Roman throats?”

“I don’t think that’s how my father pictured it.” He pulls the skin of Marcus’s cheek taut to drag the blade across it. Marcus looks away.

“Will we never stop running aground on this?” Esca asks, exasperated. But in his heart he is pleased—he can speak to Marcus like this now that he is no longer a slave.

He sits back on his heels. Marcus looks comical half bearded, and Esca’s lips quirk.

“What?” asks Marcus.

“I could leave you like this. You might start a new fad.”

Marcus reaches up and feels his face. “Roman on one side, Greek on the other,” he muses. “It won’t do. What will you demand to finish the job?”

Esca pretends to consider for a moment, then climbs onto Marcus’s lap. “Wait and see,” he says, feeling Marcus grow hard underneath him. He rocks his hips into Marcus’s and grabs a hold of his chin. “Stay still, and I’ll finish.”

He turns Marcus’s face to the other side, and rises up onto his knees. Marcus cants his hips up to follow. “Stay still,” Esca orders. “Or I will leave you like this.”

“I would hate to be left like this,” Marcus murmurs, keeping his jaw as still as possible. “It would be awkward to walk into camp half bearded and erect as Priapus.”

Esca forces himself to go slowly, but eventually, when Marcus is cleanly shaved, and straining up against him, Esca relents, digging under Marcus’s clothes so he can wrap his hand around him.

“No,” says Marcus. “I want your skin on mine.” His gaze drops.

There is some Roman shame here, and perhaps later Esca will have time to find out what it is, to learn more of the strange terrain that still separates them, but now he has only Marcus’s hands on him, his on Marcus’s, cocks rubbing hotly together, until they spend over their joined fingers and lie panting together on the cold earth.

“What now?” Esca asks, when they roll apart. Between the trees, the sky is streaked blue and gray.

“Now to the wall,” says Marcus, sitting up.

“And after that?” Esca asks Marcus’s back.

Marcus turns to look at him. “I would not be parted from you,” he says. “More than that, I can’t say.” He picks up the eagle and starts lashing it into his cloak so he can wear it on his back. “I don’t know what this—” he hefts it up “—will mean.”

“I would not be parted from you either,” says Esca. “It is enough.”

 **The End.**


End file.
